


Warp and Wept

by Moretta



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:15:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28495938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moretta/pseuds/Moretta
Summary: "One of Arthur's expensive Savile Row suits is burning brightly in a Manhattan trashcan outside his apartment.He and Eames argued – loudly and violently – 37 hours ago, Arthur on his satellite phone in middle of a fucking guerilla war camp in the middle of Zimbabwe, and Eames on his cell in Riga."A slice of home life in the aftermath of an international domestic.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 45





	Warp and Wept

One of Arthur's expensive Savile Row suits is burning brightly in a Manhattan trashcan outside his apartment.

It's almost three in the morning, and Arthur is too damn tired for this shit.

He and Eames argued – loudly and violently – 37 hours ago, Arthur on his satellite phone in middle of a fucking guerilla war camp in the middle of Zimbabwe, and Eames on his cell in Riga.

Of course Eames got home first – he didn't have to threaten nine people to leave and get the eight hour drive to the closest airport. Arthur does not have the energy or the brain capacity to deal with this right now.

He sighs at the glowing remains of his beautiful, custom suit and dumps in what's left his airplane bottle of water. It does nothing.

The doorman nods when he walks past. The elevator doesn't trap him. He reaches his own front door intact. He stops for a minute, dumping his bag next to the front door.

The key slides smoothly into the lock, but won't turn. Arthur rests his head against the door and valiantly does not punch anything in frustration. Of course he did. If Eames had said what Arthur had in the heat of the moment, Arthur would have wanted to lock him out too. 

He tries again, but all he gets is the scrape of metal on metal and a knot in his throat.

Ten seconds later, Eames opens the door. He looks Arthur up and down, but lets him in, even stepping out to pick up his abandoned luggage.

“I thought you had changed the locks,” says Eames, pushing Arthur into a kitchen chair with a firm hand on his shoulder, “then I remembered how we fucked that door to hell last time, moving the new fridge in. I've discovered you need to turn the key and lift the door at the same time.”

The exhaustion is catching up with him now that he's home – he hadn't been able to sleep at all on the way, too wired and stressed and busy burning all trails and ties to that particular job.

Arthur swallows dry, “I thought maybe you'd changed them. Because-”

“Yeah well. Don't get me wrong, I am still bloody angry at you. But this is your abode too, and I wouldn't do that to you.”

Arthur watches Eames put the kettle on, filling it about halfway, the start of a whole British ritual.

Arthur had imported the thing after Eames had complained that he couldn't make a decent cup of tea with American one Arthur had inherited with the kitchen, and he would be damned if he had to heat his water _in the microwave, Arthur_ , and Arthur had jury rigged it to an American plug as half a birthday present to himself once Eames had copied the key and let him know that the left side was now his side of the bed.

Arthur slides his arms forward and presses his cheek to the cool of the table, thoughts trickling through molasses slow.

“Is that my suit, outside?”

“You mean the pinstripe roasting on an open fire?” Eames sighs, pulling down two mugs and a box of loose leaf, “It's mine. Blood and other foul stuff all over it. For the price the dry cleaner quoted me, I might just as well buy another.”

Suddenly, there's a mug of something cinnamon, cloves and orange in front of him. 

Probably sweetened just enough, too.

Arthur feels like an ass.

Eames is wearing half a smile, sliding into the chair opposite.

“I thought you weren't coming home until the 18th,” he says.

He waits for Arthur to sit back up and take a sip before he raises an eyebrow, waiting for an answer.

“I wasn't.”

“And yet, here you are. Why are you here?”

Deflection is probably not the best way to go, but he doesn't know how to play this game right now.

“I thought you weren't back until next week?”

He cradles his hands around his own mug, twisting it slightly.

“I wasn't. But the job went south, and there were guns, and I was miserable and missed New York. So I finished early and came home.”

Home.

“I'm sorry, Eames.”

Eames smiles at him, “I know. Come on, you great lump, finish your tea, then we'll go to sleep. You can tell me how you managed to get here in – what, 30-odd hours? That's impressive even for you.”

Arthur drinks his tea, Eames stirs idly.

“We'll deal with it all tomorrow, yeah?”

“Ok,” But Arthur hesitates anyway, “Are you – I mean, you know, right?”

“Of course I know. Drink up. The sooner we go to sleep, the sooner we can go suit shopping. I know how much you like dressing me up.”

Arthur isn't sure how he's been forgiven so quickly, but he'll take it.

Eames falls asleep the instant his head hits the pillow, but Arthur listens to his even breathing and the faint sounds of the city outside and thinks to himself that maybe he doesn't want to leave ever again.


End file.
